Out in the sun on Sunday - Birmingham
The place, that concrete wilderness, but by
The canal me and my girl, each with arm
Around the other, make the time pass by
Too fast - and after a while, we say bye
To the balcony, and inside we clasp
The time ever tighter, won't let it fly
But it will, a butterfly we can't grasp
We scour the terrain, searching for some grass
A few scrappy patches overlooked on
All sides by towering flats, hundreds of eyes
Back inside, to the pub sofa, surpass
Bar staff and regulars' expectations
And when it's time to go, it's time to cry
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